Red Strings and Demon Wings
by takanobaka
Summary: When America and England finally manage to confess, you'd think all would be well, but a sudden supernatural encounter throws their lives into chaos. Amidst shocking changes and bloody battles, can they hope to have anything approaching a relationship?
1. Chapter 1

The hunter crept stealthily through the territory of his unknowing prey, his footfalls making no noise as he stalked his chosen target. The house was quiet and still as the afternoon sun's rays fell across the furniture, the only sounds in the room the breaths of the hunter and his prey and the clicking of computer keys.

Ever closer came the fierce predator, his heart speeding up in his chest with the thrill of the hunt. He was so close that he could almost _taste_ victory, so close that he could reach out and touch the nearly invisible blond hairs on the back of the neck in front of him. _Just a little bit farther…._

The hunter crouched low to the ground, then sprung, tackling his prey with a terrifying war cry.

"_Iggyyyyyyyyyy!_"

Alfred grinned down at the flushed and struggling nation pinned beneath him, ignoring his litany of swearwords to pull him in a bone-crushing hug. "Hey, dude! 'Sup?" he asked, his trademark megawatt grin spreading across his face.

The Briton below him sighed in resignation, having given up on lecturing Alfred for his unannounced break-ins long ago. Green eyes glared up at Alfred from beneath those infamously large eyebrows and mumbled something in that weird England-language that Alfred could never make heads or tails of. It was probably an insult, though. Most of the England-language seemed to be comprised of it.

Man, he was so _cute_ when he was angry.

Alfred mentally slapped himself. _I did _not_ just think that._

Oh, who was he kidding? He liked Arthur — England, England, he had to call him England, they weren't in _that_ type of relationship (no matter how much he might have wanted to be). _Really _liked him. He wasn't even sure how long his little crush — okay, so maybe it was more than a _little _crush, more like a head-over-heels infatuation — had been developing, having only fully come to terms with its existence relatively recently. His flagrant self-denial had eventually gotten ridiculous to the point where even _he_, Alfred F. Jones, who had refusing to read the atmosphere down to an art form, couldn't run from the truth any longer.

However, as healthy as acknowledging your true feelings is, thinking about your crush while straddling the guy you loved was _not_ the best time to be doing it. Alfred's cheeks pinked and he quickly scrambled off of the smaller man, covering up his embarrassment with a laugh and a carefree bounce to his feet. "Ha ha, didn't expect that, didja, old man? You've gotta be losing your touch if you didn't notice me sneaking up on you!"

Arth — _E__ngland_ brushed himself off from head to toe, flicking a few invisible pieces of dirt from his cuffs in irritation. Alfred couldn't suppress a chuckle — the way England fussed over his appearance was, in his opinion, completely adorable. However, the angry Brit before him seemed to misconstrue the reason for his mirth, and crossed his arms with a huff, his mouth falling into that slight pout that secretly made Alfred go weak at the knees and want to melt into a pile of goo whenever he saw it.

"America," England said flatly. "For the last _bloody_ time, stop breaking into my house and manhandling me like a sack of flour. I have had absolutely _enough_ of your antics."

Alfred laughed lightly, brushing off the man's annoyance like it was nothing. Because, really, England got angry at _everything_, and eventually you just had to start ignoring it and continuing to do whatever the heck you wanted. Besides, if he didn't break into England's house, when would he get to see him? At boring old meetings that only happened every couple months and during which they barely had any chances to speak to one another about anything other than taxes or governments or whatever dull crap they were supposed to be working on?

"Dude, chill out!" he returned easily, pinching England's cheek. "I was bored, so I came to see you! We haven't talked to each other in a while." _Not that I need to be bored to want to come and see you_, he added mentally.

England's glare didn't budge. "We talked to each other _yesterday_."

Alfred pouted. "On the phone! Not face-to-face!" _Face to really hot face __—__ stop it, Al, so not the time._

The nation across from him sighed and smoothed his hair back with one hand, and Alfred grinned, knowing he had won. "Well, I can't say I'm exactly thrilled to see you," and that kind of hurt, but he couldn't really let it show on his face because he was supposed to be oblivious and laugh stuff like this off, "but I suppose even you are preferable to hordes of anonymous strangers screaming 'ASL' at me." He indicated the computer with one hand, rolling his eyes. "Whatever that bloody means."

Alfred frowned. _ASL?_ Glancing at the computer screen, he could see it was open to one of the various anonymous chat sites that existed around the internet, where you clicked a button and got hooked up with a rando who would more than likely ask you for cybersex. The thoughts of England and cybersex with random strangers merged in his head in a way he _really_ didn't like, until he remembered that England hadn't known what the term meant.

Knowing that, Alfred relaxed and gave in to the always-tempting urge to tease England. "Well, of course I'm better than them! I'm the hero, after all!" He beamed, ignoring the obligatory slug to his arm. "ASL? Oh, it means… Arthur's Scones are Lame." He grinned, pleased with himself for coming up with the backronym so quickly.

"_W-what_?" England spluttered, hackles rising like a cat that had been sprayed with water. "That's ridiculous! My scones are delectable!"

Alfred chuckled, happy he'd gotten a rise out of England so quickly. _Man, pushing his buttons is way too fun._ "Hey, it fits," he said, shrugging nonchalantly. "And it's true, too."

"It's not my bloody fault you have no sense of taste!" England yelled, stomping his foot. Alfred was tempted to level a disbelieving gaze at him and go _"you're kidding me, right?"_ because, um, _duh_, yes it was, but the prospect of teasing England even further was too good to pass up.

Sassily (because he was _totally_ sassy when he wanted to be, except in a really manly and not at all gay way), he put one hand on his hip and brought the other to his ear, extending the pinkie and thumb to make a finger phone. "Yo, Pot? This is Kettle."

England clamped his jaw shut and glared angrily at the floor, so angrily that for a moment Alfred was sure that laser beams were going to come out of his eyes and burn the floor to pieces for daring to offend him so. Except, wait, it wasn't the floor that had offended England, it was him. Which meant England was mad because of him, and that wasn't a very heroic thing to do. _Better fix it._

Alfred slung a casual arm across England's shoulders, feeling slightly guilty. England was always uber-sensitive about his food; how had he forgotten that? "C'mon, man, I'm just teasing." He was about to say something else, maybe something about how England had gone all weirdly red and stuff again, but then his actions caught up with his brain and the fact that he currently _had his arm around England_ quickly took over all available brain space. He tried not to hyperventilate. _Okay, okay, distract yourself, don't think about it, don't think about how you're touching him and if you want you could just pull him in closer and kiss his cheek and then maybe move your lips over to that little pout and __—_

Crap. So much for that.

Luckily, England had started speaking again, and Alfred could focus on what he was saying instead of the way he looked really, _really_ hot in that sweatervest — uh, well, sort of focus. "There's no way all of those people are actually saying that," he muttered darkly, looking upset.

"Nah, it actually means something else," Alfred said, deciding that taking his arm off England's shoulders would be the best thing for his sanity. He covered the movement with a carefree stretch and a grin. "You really don't know?"

He was met with another of the patented England-glares and a sarcastic, "Would I really be asking if I did?"

Huh. He kind of had a point there. Alfred's relief was no doubt completely visible on his face. "So you _weren't_ trying to cyber, then."

Wait… had that been out loud?

Apparently it had. England's face lit up like a traffic light, his expression horrified. "E-e-ex_cuse_ me?"

"Oh." Alfred frowned, joviality gone. "So you _do_ know what that one means." He really didn't like the thought of why that might be.

England folded his arms, staring determinedly at something in the corner that was very much _not_ Alfred. "And what if I do? It's certainly none of _your_ business!" he snapped.

Alfred copied the motion, annoyed. _Why is he always so freaking stubborn?_ "Don't tell me you know from _experience_!" And suddenly he really needed to know, know that England wasn't trawling the internet where there were pedos and creepy old men and sick freaks looking for a good time, needed to know that he wasn't sitting at home alone typing lewd things to a computer screen.

"E-experience?" England stammered, his blush darkening before his expression obstinately returned to the angry, closed-off expression that was the one Alfred hated most. "And how is this any of your affair whatsoever?" he barked.

Alfred's eyes widened, anger quickly replaced by fear. How was he supposed to answer that? "_Because I have a really ginormous crush on you and I don't like the thought of you cybersexing up random strangers"?_ "W-well, I just… uh…." _Crap, I'm stuttering. Get it together, Al!_ "B-because… I'm the hero! Yeah! And that's not a very heroic thing to be doing." He felt like an idiot. What kind of a thing was that to say? Was he the anti-cybersex mascot now? _"And remember, kids, only you can prevent virtual sex with strangers!"_

England's burning glare moved to the hardwood floor beneath their feet. He suddenly sounded tired, though his words still had an angry bite to them. "You're entitled to your own opinion, but what I may or may not do with my time is my own damn business."

"Well, I don't like it!" Alfred raised his voice again, clenching his fists angrily. Then he sighed, suddenly deflating. Quietly, not looking at England, he asked, "Are you really… that lonely?" Because it was a lonely image, a lonely thought. And the thought of England being lonely enough to turn to random strangers for some satisfaction, _any_ satisfaction, made Alfred's heart hurt.

"I said you were entitled to your opinion; I didn't say I cared what you think!" England snapped. He, too, became suddenly quiet as he answered Alfred's second question in barely more than a mutter. "No. I'm _not_."

"Well, good then," Alfred huffed, still a little annoyed and trying to cover up how worried he was. He turned, about to leave, to storm away like one of them always did whenever they had one of their too-frequent fights that made the nation wonder why on earth he actually _liked_ the stubborn, crotchety old man, when a quiet, hesitant voice from behind him made him stop in his tracks.

"And… what if I was?"

Alfred whirled so fast he almost gave himself whiplash. England was standing there still, looking down with red cheeks and a slightly sad look in his eyes that nearly broke Alfred's heart then and there. He looked up, meeting Alfred's shocked gaze, and bristled defensively. "J-just hypothetically, of course!"

Great. Now _he_ was going bright red. _Quick, quick, gotta say something, gotta say anything that's doesn't involve sweeping him up in your arms and kissing him until that sad face goes away and carrying him off into the sunset, promising him he'll never be lonely again, or maybe __— focus, Alfred!_ "Um… uh… w-well…." he stammered, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

Suddenly, inspiration struck like baby Superman crashing into Earth from outer space. "I'd — I'd set you up with someone!" He laughed, smiling with relief and congratulating himself on the quick thinking. _That was close._ "Ha ha, yeah, that's it! That's totally what I'd do!"

England whipped his head up, staring at him with his mouth hanging slightly open. The red spots on his cheeks had disappeared, and Alfred might've said he actually looked really pale, except England was always pale anyway so it was really hard to tell. Too much rain and clouds and Britishness, not enough Cali beaches. "Y-you'd do no such thing!" he choked out, sounding shocked and slightly horrified.

"Sure I would!" Alfred's mouth said before his brain had caught up to what they were actually talking about. "I'm the matchmaking king!"

With a derisive snort, England rolled his eyes. "Oh, _are_ you?" he snarked. "And just _who_ have you gotten together so successfully?"

Alfred laughed nervously, trying to deflect the question. "Uh… people!"

England slapped a hand to his forehead and groaned. "That is _not_ an answer!"

"Sure it is!" _Now, c'mon, change the subject, forget I said anything __—_

"Oh? Then _who_, exactly, would _you_ 'set up' with _me_?" And there it was. Alfred looked up, wincing, to see England glaring at him intensely, green eyes trapping him and holding him in place like some sort of immobilization ray. "And 'people'," England growled, "is _not_ an answer this time."

Alfred gulped. "W-well, uh, what kind of… what kind of people do you like?" he asked nervously, bracing himself for the pain that was sure to come. As much as it was going to hurt to hear England talk about the kind of guys or girls he liked (probably someone really serious and studious, someone who could recite entire volumes of Shakespeare and talk about England about boring crap for hours), there didn't seem to be any alternative to getting out of the situation without humiliating himself. _Might as well get the part where I get my heart ripped out and stomped on now, instead of making even more of an idiot of myself and trying to confess to him later._

There was silence for a long time, the kind of silence that stretched on and on until Alfred couldn't bear it any more and looked up, despite his better judgement. England had turned around, hiding his expression completely, his ears and the back of his neck fire-engine red. Hesitantly, so quietly Alfred barely caught it, he stuttered out, "I-I think… I might have a thing for… stupid, loveable, intolerable, brilliant, loud… _heroic_… A-Americans."

Alfred nearly fell over.

England had not just said that. England had _not_ just said that. He must have been imagining it, right?

A nervous laugh bubbled up out of his mouth before he could stop it, sounding more hysterical than anything else. "Whoah, my hearing must be screwy or something," he laughed, faking casual conversation and trying to pretend that his brain wasn't currently about to explode, "'cause it almost sounded like you were talking about —" He gulped. "M-me."

The answer came like a breath, nearly a whisper. "A-and… what if I was?"

Okay. That was it. He was dreaming. Or dead. Or maybe he'd gotten his hands on Tony's virtual reality equipment. Because there was _no freaking way_ England was implying what Alfred thought he was implying.

Since this was obviously not real, Alfred decided to go along with it. Even knowing it was all in his head — because it _had_ to be, it couldn't be actually _happening_ — he choked out, "Well, then… I'd have to tell you that I was planning to set you up with… w-with a dude that sounded a lot like that…" He swallowed, closing his eyes. _Here I go. No turning back now. _"a-and who happens to, uh, really like… stuffy, serious, mature, grumpy, smart… _amazing_ English guys… with huge eyebrows."

England froze. Which was good, because it put them on the same playing field. Alfred was pretty sure he remembered what being able to move was like. A little bit.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, England turned around, finally meeting Alfred's terrified eyes. "If your hearing is going…" came that too-damn-sexy voice with its too-damn-sexy accent, sounding cautious, unsure, and maybe slightly hopeful (although the last one was probably Alfred's wishful thinking), "mine must be completely off." England gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing in his pale throat. "That… that sounds… like _you_."

Alfred slowly straightened, the inkling of a realization that maybe, impossibly, this _wasn't_ all in his head after all beginning to dawn upon him. "E-either both of us or going deaf," he whispered, hardly daring to breathe, "or… yes."

England slowly stepped closer, looking like he was afraid that if he moved too fast, the scene would shatter and fade away. Alfred knew how he felt. "I-I'd rather not think I can't hear you properly," he said in strangled disbelief. "I _don't_ want to think I'm not hearing you properly."

Alfred took a few steps forward until they met in the middle of the room, looking down at England — Arthur? Could he call him that? _Dare_ he call him that? — whose expression of disbelieving wonder mirrored what he was sure was on his own face. It was like it was perfectly choreographed, timed by some outside force, and maybe this was a musical or something and one of them was going to start singing about how much they loved each other. A musical would make more sense. "If neither of us are wrong," Alfred gulped, hardly daring to breathe, "t-then that means…."

Arthur's — because if this was real, if this was really happening, he was going to call him by his human name like only the closest of nations could, like he'd dreamed of doing ever since he'd realized how much he loved him — eyes widened even farther, and a part of Alfred's mind dimly babbled something incoherent about England's eyes and forests and emeralds and hypnotic seas of green. "T-that I… that _we_…." he whispered, his left hand inching forward.

Alfred noticed the movement out of the corner of his eye, unable to look away from Arthur's gaze. "T-that we both…." he continued breathlessly, his heart in his throat as he mirrored Arthur, moving his own hand closer until, suddenly, they touched, a jolt of electricity shocking through Alfred and making him shiver.

Ever so slowly, he curled his hand around Arthur's, concentrating on moving each shaking finger one at a time before looking up into that mesmerising green gaze again. "L-l-l…." He couldn't say it. Not the 'l' word. Not until he was sure this was real. "… h-have a thing for each other," he finished lamely.

Arthur bit his lip slightly, and Alfred nearly wanted to _cry_ at how gosh-darn _adorable_ it was. "I — yes…." He swallowed audibly. "I… I... I love you… Alfred." His voice was barely more than a whisper, but Alfred heard every word loud and clear, ringing in his ears over and over.

The world dropped out from below Alfred's feet; because Arthur had _said_ it, said the l-word that he was so afraid of saying in case it wasn't reciprocated — and he had _used his name_. "Arthur, I… I love you too." He lifted a nervous hand, brushing back a strand of sandy blond hair and cupping Arthur's chin with one hand. "U-uh… can I…?" He trailed off, unable to ask.

But luckily, Arthur seemed to know what he wanted. He closed his eyes and nodded, cheeks bright red yet again. Alfred leaned in, slowly, carefully, hesitating for a moment before taking the plunge and crossing those last few inches between them, their lips crashing together. A shudder went through his body, his mouth tingling with something he couldn't name.

It was real.

It was _real_ and it was _happening _and Arthur, Arthur, _his_ Arthur, loved him back and was _kissing_ him and _smiling _and putting his hands around his shoulders. And a burning passion was taking over Alfred, making him wrap an arm around Arthur's waist and yank him closer, tangling the other in his hair and moving his lips clumsily against his, deepening the kiss.

There was a sharp breath against his cheek, and suddenly he was afraid he was moving too fast, that Arthur was going to pull away, say he'd changed his mind and made a terrible mistake, but instead he pressed himself even closer against Alfred's body, hands tightening on his shoulders.

The Kiss (because if anything ever deserved capitalization, it was that) lasted a few seconds longer before they finally broke for air, panting. Alfred, completely dazed, could only manage to eke out a stunned "Whoah."

Arthur took a deep breath, hugging himself and shaking a little, and Alfred almost wanted to grab him and kiss him again except for the fact that his brain still hadn't quite recovered from the shock of the first one. Without meeting Alfred's eyes, he asked, "Is that a good thing…? Or…."

Alfred ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head in amazement and wondering why the American language (not English, American) didn't have any words that even _approached_ how mind-blowing the kiss had been. "That was… that was even better than I'd always imagined," he said, then slapped a hand over his mouth and blushed. _Smooth move, Romeo._

Arthur's mouth hung open slightly. "Than you've — ?" He shook his head, suddenly pressing his face into Alfred's chest. When the blond looked down in surprise, he saw that distinctive flush spreading its way across Arthur's cheeks. "You should have told me sooner… git," Arthur mumbled, not looking at him. Alfred smiled — still the same old Arthur — and wrapped his arms around him, holding the smaller man tightly to his body, Arthur's head tucked snugly under his own.

And so they stood there, holding each other, and time passed in a whirlwind of confessions and memories and lines so mushy they reminded Alfred of one of those romantic chick flicks he most definitely did not watch and _never _cried at. The sheer amount of sap coming out of his mouth was enough to make gallons of Mattie's trademark syrup, but he didn't care. He was in love, and Arthur loved him back, and he could be as soppy as he freaking wanted. Alfred was in heaven, floating in a cloud of sheer ecstasy (except not the drug, because that was so not cool; heroes do _not_ do drugs). He felt as though he could stay there forever, just drinking in Arthur and forgetting that the rest of the world existed.

Which is why it was such a shock when something he couldn't see slammed into his stomach and ripped him cruelly from Arthur's embrace, jerking him roughly away and slamming him against a wall.

**Pleasedon'tkillmeforthecliffhanger *hides***

**Hello there, all! Taka here (that's my internet nickname, don't wear it out) with a new USUK story! This one is based off an RP with my wonderful waifu, known as Sindragosa on LiveJournal, Burgergasm on tumblr, and Mingamelon on FFNet. I hope you like it, Sin — I didn't screw anything up, did I? Do you hate me for making changes? Did you imagine it completely differently? *runs around panicking***

**I hope it wasn't too confusing that Alfred/America referred to himself as Alfred and England/Arthur as England at first, than switched to Arthur halfway through. Hopefully, I made the reason why that was clear enough. From now on, however, they will pretty much exclusively be referred to by their human names, though they _are_ nations. I'm not sure exactly why, but Waifu and I used Arthur and Alfred throughout the roleplay, so Arthur and Alfred they shall be!**

**I'm a little too exhausted to look this over properly at the moment, so I'll just go ahead and post it. I may make changes later, I may not.**

**Reviews are loved and appreciated, especially lengthy, in-depth ones! Death threats or thrown projectiles for the cliffhanger are not, but probably somewhat warranted. ^_^;**

**I hope to get another chapter up not-ridiculously-late! See you all again then!**


	2. Chapter 2

For a moment, Arthur wasn't sure what had happened. One moment, Alfred had been holding him tightly, shyly leaning in for their second kiss (_Second!_ Arthur still couldn't entirely wrap his head around the fact that there had been a _first_) as Arthur reached out to stroke his cheek, his eyes closed; the next, the Brit's hand brushed against thin air as Alfred was yanked abruptly from his grasp. Arthur's eyes flew open in shock. "W-what?! _Alfred!_"

Arthur stumbled forward, off-balance from the sudden loss of support. He caught himself and whipped his head up again, searching desperately for the nation he had been so in love with for so long now. His eyes snapped to a writhing shape in the corner, and he gasped, rushing forward; Alfred had been brutally slammed against the shadowy opposite wall, struggling desperately against something pinning him there. At first glance, it looked as though he was fighting against an invisible force, but a closer look let Arthur, his heart hammering, see the ethereal wisps of darkness somehow holding him with no trouble.

"Arthur!" Alfred yelled as he battled the restraining blackness, managing to pull himself forward a few steps through sheer willpower. "I can't — something's got a hold of me!"

Arthur scrabbled for Alfred's hands, grasping them tightly and trying vainly to pull him from the shadows' grip. "Alfred!" he choked out, cold fear tightening its icy fingers around his throat, "Stay with me! Don't — _don't let go_!" He knew the words were futile; if whatever otherworldly forces were attacking could hold back _Alfred_ of all nations, they had no chance to best it using physical force.

Alfred seemed to realize this as well, but still he fought, even as the encroaching darkness (_Demons? Curses? Enchanted shadows?_ wondered Arthur's fevered brain as he fought to keep his grip) crept farther up his body, yanking at him with inky tendrils. Arthur did his best to hold on, his knuckles white with the effort, but a hollow feeling of dread formed in the pit of his stomach. _We can't hold them off._

As though responding to Arthur's thoughts, Alfred was jerked heartlessly away, the darkness now coating most of his body like an inky tuxedo. _Oh, so _now_ he learns to wear a proper suit_, Arthur's mind offered in its hysteria. He angrily brushed such time-wasting ridiculousness aside, reaching desperately for Alfred again. Frightened tears threatened to spill from the corners of his eyes; he _couldn't_ lose Alfred, not now. Not when they'd finally stumbled into each other in the labyrinths of love, lust, and loss that were nations' relationships.

Their fingers met, and Arthur's relief morphed to sharp shock. His hand went straight _through_ Alfred's, as though the outstretched appendage was an illusion. The American stared at his hand and gulped; it was transparent to the point where Arthur could see the hardwood floor through it, and quickly becoming more so as both nations' eyes widened in fear. "A-Arthur, what's happening to me…?"

Arthur's hands shot out again, grasping only nothingness. Why was this _happening_?! "I — I don't —" He looked up again from his futile efforts; the sight that greeted him made his chest tighten painfully. That _damn_ darkness gripped Alfred ever tighter in a deadly embrace, and Alfred — Alfred was barely there at all.

Arthur's legs locked and his mouth opened in a silent scream, reaching out one last time. He saw Alfred swallow, the fear (_fear_ — Alfred F. Jones was afraid of nothing, save cheesy horror films that could never hurt him in the least!) clear in his eyes. He struggled to free an arm, as though fighting molasses and a steel arm at the same time. Their fingertips met, and Arthur imagined for a moment that he could feel Alfred's hand squeezing tightly to his own.

"Arthur," came his voice. Such a loud voice, normally, so strong; now a whisper, a breath of wind against Arthur's skin. "Arthur, whatever happens" — his voice was getting weaker and weaker, his body barely more than wisps of coloured air now. Arthur screamed at his body to _move_, to do something, _anything_, but his muscles refused to respond — "Whatever happens," Alfred repeated with a shaky version of his ear-splitting grin, "I love y —"

And he was gone.

* * *

Arthur fell to his knees with a jarring _thump_ that echoed horribly in the sudden silence of the room. He felt nothing as they hit the floor. "No," he mumbled through numb lips. "No, _no_, damn it, _damn it_ —" His voice cracked. It had to be some sort of cruel trick; any moment, Alfred would pop up with that blinding smile of his and say _"Gotcha, old man!"_ He wasn't really — he _couldn't_be —

He punched the floor with all his might, his shoulders shaking violently. Arthur's world slowly crumbled around him, and so too did his composure as tears stung at his eyes and he whipped his head up, screaming at thin air with a half-mad expression. "Coward! Show yourself! I'll fight you, I'll… just — _bring him back!_"

The room mocked him with his stillness.

Arthur crumpled in on himself, his rage dissipating as quickly as it had come. What was he going to do?! The situation stretched before him, bleak and hopeless. Anything mortal or even supernatural would normally have been easy for Arthur to handle, but this…. In all his centuries of magical study, he had never run across a mere mention of anything like what had taken Alfred. It had been so powerful as to stop the personification of the United States of America from raising so much as a finger against it, and it had sent some of the most powerful fae in existence fleeing at the mere sight of it. With not so much of a trace of a clue to Alfred's location, how could he ever…?

Arthur suddenly became aware of a gentle tugging on his little finger. He ignored it at first, thinking that it was simply a pixie attempting to cheer him up, but the tugging became so insistent that he whirled, ready to snap at the fairy.

Instead, he was greeted with a sight so strange that it temporarily snapped him out of his distress: a crimson string that had most _definitely_ not been tied around his finger before, trailing from his finger around out of sight behind him. He blinked and reached out a cautious hand, his the tip of his index finger meeting the thread.

His mind was suddenly slammed with a wave of sensations so strong and strange and _not his_ that he was nearly knocked off his feet. He saw double, felt double, _was_ double — was himself and someone else, someone larger and stronger and _familiar_ who was touching the string tied to his own finger and was being assaulted just as he was. They let go at the same time; a gasping Arthur fell to the floor, himself and _only_ himself once more. Mouth dry, he stared at the mysterious string, trying to make sense of the flashes of the other and yet not other he had experienced.

There had been darkness _everywhere_, he remembered that much, and there had been a strange, constricting pressure on (his body? The other's?) _the_ body, like some sort of restraint. The far more overwhelming part of the experience had been the _emotions_. They had been all of his own emotions — grief, worry, anger, confusion, shock — but not directed in the same areas, and not at the same levels — argh, it was all so mind-shatteringly befuddling! Why was he letting this bizarre development distract him from Alfred and the shadows?!

_The shadows._ There had been something — something in the not-stranger's mind — what had it been…? Arthur closed his eyes, concentrating. _Shadows — suffocating — fading — no, no, fighting, fighting the shadows, trying to stay — trying to stay with…. "Arthur!"_

Arthur's eyes snapped open in shock. The other man — _Alfred?!_ He scrabbled for the string again, hardly daring to believe it. Alfred! Somehow, bizarrely, he'd found a way of reaching him! Everything was not lost!

His fingers stopped a mere hair shy of the trailing thread. _I don't know how this works, but we can somehow communicate emotions and sensations to one another by touching this string. If we were both so overwhelmed the first time, I should attempt to get a handle on myself before I try again._

And so, though Arthur could barely stop himself from whooping for joy and grabbing the red string with all his might, he closed his eyes, crossed his legs, and drew into himself. Meditation was something that Japan had taught him, and though he had never been as good at it as the quiet Asian nation, he had always found it helpful when he needed to affirm his hold on himself and his magic.

He breathed deeply, the motion slow and controlled. One by one, he gathered the twisted vines of his errant thoughts and pulled them back into him, striving to keep his mind blank. When he felt that his emotions were under the tightest control he could manage, Arthur exhaled one last time, opened his eyes, and reached a finger to the string oh-so-cautiously.

The wave assaulted him again, but this time he was ready for it. He braced himself against the onslaught; he had battled worse storms at sea. He battened down the hatches and sent one clear thought through the muddle of what he could vaguely recognize as questions (_Where am I? What happened? What the heck is with this string? Why is it so dark? Where's Arthur?_). _"Calm down, Alfred, and get control of your thoughts before my head explodes!"_

There was a stuttering pause in the swarm of questions, a pulse of shock and confusion, sudden recognition in an explosion of sensation (_joy-Arthur-relief-why-how-thoughts-speaking-head-string_), and a belated attempt to quiet down. Arthur could feel a headache coming on already. _"I knew your voice was obnoxiously loud, but I had no idea your thoughts were as well," _he sent, hoping that the possible tear or two of happiness at being able to somehow hear-feel-be Alfred would not transmit.

"_Arthur?"_ The thought prodded unsurely at his mind. Half-formed feelings were still leaking through, but it was infinitely preferable to the utter chaos of before. _"Is that — why am I hearing you in my head?!"_ They both knew that 'hearing' wasn't exactly the word, but Arthur hardly cared for semantics at the moment.

He shook his head, then remembered Alfred couldn't see him. _"I don't __—__ I can hear you in my mind, too. It must have something to do with these red strings, but I've no idea…." _He drifted for a moment before surging back, worry and panic slipping through despite his attempts to keep a grip on his feelings. _"That aside, what in the world is going on?! Where _are_ you?!"_

The fragmented answer came with hesitation and a feeling that wasn't quite confusion. If Arthur had had to put a name to it, it would have been 'fuzziness.' _"I don't — it's really hard to tell. I feel like…kinda like I'm floating, I guess? Like I'm in space, except without the whole bit where I can't breathe and it's freezing and my blood boiling and my guts —"_

"_Alfred."_

"_Sorry."_

Arthur couldn't help the few bubbles of amusement and relief that Alfred was still the same Alfred as always that slipped through their connection. _"Can you see anything? Did you see who did this to you?"_

A mental shake of the head. _"It's real dark. Pitch-black, 'cept for the red thingy."_ He could feel Alfred squinting at it. _"It's all glowy and weird. Anyway, all I know is that the…." _Unable to give it a name, he sends across a general impression of the shadow that had grabbed him. _"That thing, it grabbed me and…well, you saw. After that…."_ Again, Alfred was wordless. Brief images flashed into Arthur's awareness, pictures of a dark land of crags and shadows that he couldn't quite understand but that caused an almost instinctive fear to rise within him.

"_It sort of… carried me past stuff like that," _Alfred continued. _"We were going so fast… I tried to fight it, but it was like just touching it drained my energy. I ended up passing out, and then I woke up here."_

Arthur stared at the string in silence — mental silence, as well, though he knew vague impressions and sensations would make their way over to Alfred as they were now to him. He gripped it tightly, grateful beyond words for the link to Alfred, the reassurance that he was alive and well. Something tickled in the back of his mind; there was a dim memory of something Japan had once told him, a legend of lovers connected through time and space by an invisible red string. He didn't know how it had become visible, but he thanked whoever or whatever was responsible with all of his heart.

Arthur turned, following the line of the thread with his eyes. It stretched off into the distance, just slack enough to hang in a gentle curve in midair. He pulled his hand back experimentally; rather than going taut, the thread lengthened to follow, and shortened once more when he returned it to its original position. His eyes were drawn to the place on his wall where the thread seemed to disappear, a dark corner where the light could not reach. _Shadows._

Panic and worry surged across their connection. Alfred knew what he was considering. _"Artie, no. __Don't.__ Whatever brought me here — well, you saw. It's __really__ strong, strong enough that I couldn't even fight back. It's too dangerous!"_

"_So what am I to do, then?"_ Arthur retorted, the thought laced with his _own_ worry and fierce determination to bring Alfred back to him. _"Just __leave__ you there?! I won't allow it!"_

"_I'll be fine! I'm the hero, after all!" _Try as he might, Alfred couldn't hide the fear that tinged his thoughts, not from Arthur. That only cemented the Briton's decision. _"No, Artie, really, I'm not scared! I'll get out all on my own, you'll see."_

Arthur's anger flared, and he let it spill over as he responded. _"Now is not the time for false heroics!"_ He could feel Alfred about to object, stung, but he pushed on relentlessly. _"Whatever's happened here undoubtedly involves some manner of supernatural shenanigans. And that is __my__ area of expertise, not yours."_

Alfred hesitated, his resolve wavering for a brief moment. _"I just… don't want you to get hurt…."_

"_And _I_ just want to kick who or whatever took you soundly in the arse and bring you __back.__We only just got everything __right__ after all this time, Alfred…."_ Arthur clenched his empty fist._ "I'm not losing you. Not now."_

Alfred hesitated, transmitting a mixture of love and admiration so strong that it made Arthur blush, but worry and protectiveness along with it. _"I still don't think you should —"_

And suddenly, his thoughts, his sensations, his connection to Arthur — gone, severed, as though someone has taken a knife and cloven their thread in two. In a panic, Arthur grasped the thread as tightly as he could, yelling with both his voice and his mind. "_Alfred?! Alfred!"_

Just as before, there was no answer. But this time, Arthur did not give into despair. This time, Arthur simply narrowed his eyes and squared his shoulders. _I'm coming, Alfred._

Determinedly, unflinchingly, he followed the red string forward into the darkness.

* * *

**All I can say is that I'm terribly sorry for leaving it this long. Writer's block hit like a — erm — _block_ to the head, and try as I might, this chapter would not come.**

**Those of you who were expecting something cavity-inducingly fluffy from the first chapter are in for a bit of a surprise. *cackles evilly*  
**

**Hopefully, the _next_ chapter won't take over three months. ^_^;;  
**

**As always, reviews are love, especially any constructive criticism (either positive or negative)!  
**


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